Later that evening, Bruce told him that the National Union of Journalists had issued a press release stating their intention to hold a meeting of all Townsend employees at ten o’clock the next morning, when they would decide what their response would be to his demands. An hour later Townsend issued his own press release.
Townsend spent a sleepless night wondering if he had embarked on a reckless gamble that would in time bring the whole of his empire to its knees. The only good news he had received in the past month was that his youngest son, Graham, who was in New York with Kate, had spoken his first word, and it wasn’t “newspaper.” Although he had attended the child’s birth, he had been seen boarding a plane at Kennedy three hours later. He sometimes wondered if it was all worthwhile.
The following morning, after being driven to his office, he sat alone awaiting the outcome of the NUJ meeting. If they decided to call a strike, he knew he was beaten. Following his press release outlining his plans, Global Corp’s shares had fallen four pence overnight, while those of Armstrong Communications, the obvious beneficiaries if there was to be any fall-out, had risen by two.
A few minutes after one o’clock, Bruce charged into his office without knocking. “They backed you,” he said. Townsend looked up, the color rushing back into his cheeks. “But it was a damn close thing. They voted 343 to 301 to make the move. I think your threat to close the paper down if they didn’t support you was what finally tilted it in your favor.”
Townsend rang Number Ten a few minutes later to warn the prime minister that there was likely to be a bloody confrontation which could last for several weeks. Mrs. Thatcher promised her full backing. As the days passed, it quickly became clear that he hadn’t exaggerated: journalists and printers alike had to be escorted in and out of the new complex by armed police; Townsend and Bruce Kelly were given twenty-four-hour protection after they received anonymous death threats.
That didn’t turn out to be their only problem. Although the new site on the Isle of Dogs was unquestionably the most modern in the world, some of the journalists were complaining about the life they were expected to endure, pointing out that there was nothing in their contracts about having abuse, sometimes even stones, hurled at them by hundreds of trades unionists as they entered Fortress Townsend each morning and left at night.
The journalists’ complaints didn’t stop there. Once they were inside, few of them cared for the production-line atmosphere, the modern keyboards and computers which had replaced their old typewriters, and in particular the ban on alcohol on the premises. It might have been easier if they hadn’t been stranded so far from their familiar Fleet Street watering holes.
Sixty-three journalists resigned in the first month after the move to the Isle of Dogs, and sales of the Globe continued to fall week after week. The picketing became more and more violent, and the financial director warned Townsend that if it went on for much longer, even the resources of Global Corp would be exhausted. He went on to ask, “Is it worth risking bankruptcy to prove a point?”
Armstrong watched with delight from the other side of the Atlantic. The Citizen kept picking up sales, and his share price soared. But he knew that if Townsend was able to turn the tide he would have to return to London and quickly put a similar operation in motion.
But no one could have anticipated what would happen next.
31.
The Sun
4 May 1982
GOTCHA!
On a Friday night in April 1982, while the British were fast asleep, Argentinian troops invaded the Falkland Islands. Mrs. Thatcher recalled Parliament on a Saturday for the first time in forty years, and the House voted in favor of dispatching a task force without delay to recapture the islands.
Alistair McAlvoy contacted Armstrong in New York and persuaded him that the Citizen should toe the Labor Party line—that a jingoistic response was not the solution, and that the United Nations should sort the problem out. Armstrong remained unconvinced until McAlvoy added, “This is an irresponsible adventure which will cause the downfall of Thatcher. Believe me, the Labor Party will be back in power within weeks.”
Townsend, on the other hand, was in no doubt that he should back Mrs. Thatcher and wrap the Union Jack round the Globe. “Argy Bargy” was the headline on Monday’s edition, with a cartoon depicting General Galtieri as a cutthroat pirate. As the task force headed out of Portsmouth and on toward the South Atlantic, sales of the Globe rose to 300,000 for the first time in months. During the first few days of skirmishing even Prince Andrew was praised for his “gallant and heroic service” as a helicopter pilot. When the British submarine HMS Conqueror sunk the General Belgrano on 2 May, the Globe told the world “BULLSEYE!”, and sales rose again. By the time the British forces had retaken Port Stanley, the Globe was selling over 500,000 copies a day, while sales of the Citizen had dipped slightly for the first time since Armstrong had become proprietor. When Peter Wakeham called Armstrong in New York to let him know the latest circulation figures, he jumped on the first flight back to London.
By the time the triumphant British troops were sailing back home, the Globe was selling over a million copies a day, while the Citizen had dipped below four million for the first time in twenty-five years. When the fleet sailed into Portsmouth, the Globe launched a campaign to raise money for the widows whose gallant husbands had made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Day after day, Bruce Kelly ran stories of heroism and pride alongside pictures of widows and their children—all of whom turned out to be readers of the Globe.
* * *
On the day after the remembrance service at St. Paul’s Cathedral, Armstrong called a council of war on the ninth floor of Armstrong House. He was reminded quite unnecessarily by his circulation manager that most of the Globe’s gains had been at the expense of the Citizen. Alistair McAlvoy still advised him not to panic. After all, the Globe was a rag; the Citizen remained a serious radical newspaper with a great reputation. “It would be foolish to lower our standards simply to appease an upstart whose paper is not fit to be wrapped around a self-respecting serving of fish and chips,” he said. “Can you imagine the Citizen ever involving itself in a bingo competition? Another one of Kevin Rushcliffe’s vulgar ideas.”
Armstrong made a note of the name. Bingo had put the Globe’s circulation up by a further 100,000 copies a day, and he could see no reason why it shouldn’t do the same for the Citizen. But he also knew that the team McAlvoy had built up over the past ten years was still fully behind its editor.
“Look at the Globe’s front-page lead this morning,” Armstrong said in a last desperate effort to make his point. “Why don’t we get stories like that?”
“Because Freddie Starr wouldn’t even make page eleven of the Citizen,” said McAlvoy. “And in any case, who cares a damn about his eating habits? We get offered stories like that every day, but we don’t get the handful of writs that usually go with them.” McAlvoy and his team left the meeting believing that they had persuaded the proprietor not to go down the same path as the Globe.
Their confidence lasted only until the next quarter’s circulation figures landed on Armstrong’s desk. Without consulting anyone, he picked up a phone and made an appointment to see Kevin Rushcliffe, the deputy editor of the Globe.
Rushcliffe arrived at Armstrong Communications later that afternoon. He couldn’t have been in greater contrast to Alistair McAlvoy. He addressed Dick at their first meeting as if they were old friends, and talked in rapid-fire soundbites that the proprietor didn’t begin to understand. Rushcliffe left him in no doubt as to the immediate changes he would make if he were given a chance to edit the Citizen. “The editorials are too bland,” he said. “Let them know what you feel in a couple of sentences. No words with more than three syllables, and no sentences with more than ten words. Don’t ever try to influence them. Just make sure you demand what they already want.” An unusually subdued Armstrong explained to the young man that he would have to start as the deputy editor, “Becau
se McAlvoy’s contract has another seven months to run.”
Armstrong nearly changed his mind about the new appointment when Rushcliffe told him the package he expected. He wouldn’t have given way so easily had he known the terms of Rushcliffe’s contract with the Globe, or the fact that Bruce Kelly had no intention of renewing it at the end of the year. Three days later he sent a memo down to McAlvoy telling him that he had appointed Kevin Rushcliffe as his deputy.
McAlvoy considered protesting at having the Globe’s deputy editor foisted upon him, until his wife pointed out that he was due for retirement in seven months on a full pension, and that this was not the time to sacrifice his job on the altar of principle. When he arrived in the office the next morning, McAlvoy simply ignored his new deputy and his idea-a-minute for tomorrow’s front page.
When the Globe put a nude on page three and sold two million copies for the first time, McAlvoy declared at morning conference, “Over my dead body.” No one felt able to point out that two or three of his best reporters had recently left the Citizen to join the Globe, while only Rushcliffe had made the journey in the opposite direction.
As Armstrong continued to spend a great deal of his time preparing for a takeover battle in New York, he reluctantly continued to accept McAlvoy’s judgment, not least because he didn’t want to sack his most experienced editor only weeks before a general election.
When Margaret Thatcher was returned to the Commons with a majority of 144, the Globe claimed the victory as theirs, and declared that this would surely hasten the downfall of the Citizen. Several commentators were quick to point out the irony of this particular statement.
When Armstrong returned to England the following week for the monthly board meeting, Sir Paul raised the subject of the fall in the paper’s circulation figures.
“While the Globe’s continue to rise every month,” Peter Wakeham interjected from the other end of the table.
“So what are we going to do about it?” asked the chairman, turning to face his chief executive.
“I have already put some plans in hand,” said Armstrong.
“Are we to be privy to these plans?” asked Sir Paul.
“I will brief the board fully at our next meeting,” said Armstrong.
Sir Paul didn’t look satisfied, but made no further comment.
The next day, Armstrong called for McAlvoy without bothering to consult anyone on the board. When the editor of the Citizen entered the proprietor’s office, Armstrong didn’t stand to greet him, and made no suggestion that he should take a seat.
“I’m sure you’ve worked out why I’ve asked to see you,” he said.
“No, Dick, I haven’t the slightest idea,” replied McAlvoy innocently.
“Well, I’ve just seen the JICNAR figures for the past month. If we continue at this rate, the Globe will be selling more copies than we are by the end of the year.”
“And you will still be the proprietor of a great national newspaper, while Townsend will still be publishing a rag.”
“That may well be the case. But I have a board and shareholders to consider.”
McAlvoy couldn’t recall Armstrong ever mentioning a board or shareholders in the past. The last refuge of a proprietor, he was about to say. Then he recalled his lawyer’s warning that his contract still had five months to run, and that he would be unwise to provoke Armstrong.
“I assume you’ve seen the Globe’s headline this morning?” said Armstrong, holding up his rival’s paper.
“Yes, of course I have,” said McAlvoy, glancing at the thick, bold print: “Top Pop Star Named in Drugs Scandal.”
“And we led on ‘Extra Benefits for Nurses.’”
“Our readers love nurses,” said McAlvoy.
“Our readers may well love nurses,” said Armstrong, flicking through the paper, “but in case you haven’t noticed, the Globe had the same story on page seven. It’s fairly clear to me, even if it isn’t to you, that most of our readers are more interested in pop stars and drug scandals.”
“The pop star in question,” countered McAlvoy, “has never had a record in the top hundred, and was smoking a joint in the privacy of his own home. If anyone had ever heard of him, the Globe would have put his name in the headline. I have a filing cabinet full of such rubbish, but I don’t insult our readers by publishing it.”
“Then perhaps it’s time you did,” said Armstrong, his voice rising with every word. “Let’s start challenging the Globe on its own ground for a change. Maybe if we did that, I wouldn’t be looking for a new editor.”
McAlvoy was momentarily stunned. “Am I to assume from this outburst that I’m fired?” he asked eventually.
“At last I’ve got through to you,” said Armstrong. “Yes, you’re fired. The name of the new editor will be announced on Monday. See that your desk is cleared by this evening.”
“Can I assume that after ten years as editor of this paper I will receive my full pension?”
“You will receive no more and no less than you are entitled to,” shouted Armstrong. “Now get out of my office.” He glared at McAlvoy, waiting for him to unleash one of the tirades for which he was so famous, but the sacked editor simply turned and left without uttering another word, closing the door quietly behind him.
Armstrong slipped into the adjoining room, toweled himself down and changed into a fresh shirt. It was exactly the same color as the previous one, so no one would notice.
Once McAlvoy was back at his desk, he quickly briefed a handful of his closest associates on the outcome of his meeting with Armstrong and on what he planned to do. A few minutes later he took the chair at the afternoon conference for the last time. He looked down the list of stories vying for the front page.
“I’m putting down a marker for tomorrow’s splash, Alistair,” said a voice. McAlvoy looked up at his political editor.
“What do you have in mind, Campbell?” he asked.
“A Labor councilor in Lambeth has gone on hunger strike to highlight the unfairness of the government’s housing policy. She’s black and unemployed.”
“Sounds good to me,” said McAlvoy. “Anyone else pushing for the lead?” No one spoke as he looked slowly round the room. His eyes finally rested on Kevin Rushcliffe, to whom he hadn’t addressed a word for over a month.
“How about you, Kevin?”
The deputy editor looked up from his place in the corner of the room and blinked, unable to believe that the editor was addressing him. “Well, I’ve been following up a lead on the foreign secretary’s private life for some weeks, but I’m finding it hard to make the story stand up.”
“Why don’t you knock out three hundred words on the subject, and we’ll let the lawyers decide if we can get away with it.”
Some of the older hands began to shuffle in their chairs.
“And what happened to that story about the architect?” asked McAlvoy, still addressing his deputy editor.
“You spiked it,” said Rushcliffe, looking surprised.
“I thought it was a bit dull. Can’t you spice it up a little?”
“If that’s what you want,” said Rushcliffe, looking even more surprised.
As McAlvoy never had a drink until he had read the first edition from cover to cover, one or two of those present wondered if he was feeling well.
“Right, that’s settled then. Kevin gets the front page and Campbell gets the second lead.” He paused. “And as I’m taking my wife to see Pavarotti tonight, I’ll be leaving the paper in Kevin’s hands. Do you feel comfortable with that?” he asked, turning to face his deputy.
“Of course,” said Rushcliffe, looking delighted that he was at last being treated as an equal.
“Then that’s settled,” said McAlvoy. “Let’s all get back to work, shall we?”
As the journalists began to drift out of the editor’s office muttering to each other, Rushcliffe came across to McAlvoy’s desk and thanked him. “Not at all,” said the editor. “You know this could be your bi
g chance, Kevin. I’m sure you’re aware that I saw the proprietor earlier this afternoon, and he told me that he’d like to see the paper challenging the Globe on its own ground. In fact, those were his exact words. So when he reads the Citizen tomorrow, be sure it has your stamp on it. I won’t be sitting in this chair forever, you know.”
“I’ll do my best,” promised Rushcliffe as he left the office. If he’d stayed a moment longer, he would have been able to help the editor clear his desk.
Later that afternoon McAlvoy made his way slowly out of the building, stopping to speak to every member of staff he bumped into. He told all of them how much he and his wife were looking forward to seeing Pavarotti, and when they asked who would be bringing out the paper that night, he told them, even the doorman. Indeed, he double-checked the time with the doorman before he headed off toward the nearest underground station, aware that his company car would already have been clamped.
Kevin Rushcliffe tried to concentrate on writing his front-page story, but he was constantly interrupted by a stream of people who wanted his input for their copy. He cleared several pages he just didn’t have time to check carefully. When he finally handed his piece in, the print room was complaining about running late, and he was relieved when the first edition came off the stone a few minutes before eleven.
* * *
Armstrong picked up the phone by his bed a couple of hours later to have the front page read out to him by Stephen Hallet. “Why the hell didn’t you stop it?” he demanded.
“I didn’t see it until the first edition hit the streets,” replied Stephen. “By the time the second edition came off the stone, we were leading on a Lambeth councilor who’s gone on a hunger strike. She’s black and…”
“I don’t give a damn what color she is,” shouted Armstrong. “What the hell did McAlvoy imagine he was up to?”